Monotone
by Zwip
Summary: [He made himself cold because it seemed as if he’d never feel warm again.] Aaaaangst. And slight DoumekiWatanuki.


Disclaimer: If I drew xxxHolic then it would be all stick figures and even though that'd be pretty cool... no. Just no.

This isn't that great of a piece of writing. Sorry. I think I've read something like it, possibly, as well.

Doumeki Shizuka had not always been, as many had thought, the strong, silent, stoic type. Well, he had mostly fulfilled the strong part (excepting a few years in kimono that he'd rather not talk about too freely) and he'd never found words to his liking; they tripped over themselves and were easily misunderstood, simply not as adequate for expressing things as glances and actions. However, he hadn't always distanced himself from his emotions and other people as he did now.

When he was younger (much, much younger) he was actually a very happy child. He took great joy in smiling, because he'd been told he looked a lot like his grandfather when he did.

He was very attached to his grandfather, and one could go so far as to say that Doumeki Haruka was his favorite person. He was a constant in his life, the only thing that never changed or faltered. He appreciated the companionship the old man provided him, as well as the important things he taught him about life. He was the first person to place a bow in his hand, the first to _always_ encourage him, and, above all, the first to treat him without the condescension he often experienced from adults. Simply put, Haruka acted as if they were equals. He did not speak more slowly than usual with him or veil difficult concepts in conversation.

However, what little Shizuka loved the most was being told stories. They would spend hours together, sitting with the books, the smell of old paper and pure _magic_ calming him as his grandfather told him stories of spirits and spells. He listened intently as this strange world was unfolded before him, knowing, even at that age, that just because he hadn't _seen_ it did not make it any less _real_. And maybe it was _because_ he could not see it that it captivated him so thoroughly. These stories of the world that most would never know made him feel like he was being told secrets, and he liked that idea, the idea that he was trusted.

It seemed all too soon that his grandfather was snatched from him, and Shizuka felt so very _empty_. It was hard to believe that there would be no more soft words of encouragement, no sly little smiles when the old man knew he'd done something wrong but wasn't about to tell anyone. No more life lessons, no more stories amidst the books when they were oh-so-weary but couldn't bring themselves to stop. He felt as if a vital body part had been amputated and he was now left to rapidly adapt or not survive.

And, for the first time in his life, Doumeki Shizuka felt lonely.

It was an awful feeling, like he needed something he couldn't quite remember but when he _did _finally remember he also had to remember that what it was he needed was gone. It was pain, it was misery, and it struck him not too long after that it was _life_. And that was when he decided that _this_ life would not be _his_ life.

Emotions, he reasoned, were just a liability, one that he could not afford. So, with much effort, he locked them all away. He made himself cold because it seemed as if he'd never feel warm again.

This actually worked. Sure, the world was all gray and tasteless, but he didn't care, because if it was all gray it could never be that crushing blue again.

This was what irked him about Watanuki Kimihiro. The first time he'd seen him it was as if the boy was simply _screaming_ to be watched (and the likelihood was that the first time he'd seen him, Watanuki _was_ screaming about something). Other people could be ignored easily, but not him, and this anomaly frustrated him. In Doumeki's world of placid monotone this _idiot_ was a huge, sloppy splash of red, setting everything out of order and disrupting his icy demeanor.

This, he was sure, was heat, not the warmth he had sought so long ago, but blazing, searing _heat_. And, as he was displeased to discover (but it had been so long since he'd allowed himself to become displeased, hadn't it?), it was melting him.

He knew what had come first of all of it; the overwhelming desire (no, desire could be ignored and suppressed, this must be a need because it could _not_) to protect. Watanuki looked so _fragile_, thin limbs and pallor reminding him of a porcelain doll, something he'd maybe have to be careful with.

Then there was irritation. Irritation at how _loud_ he was, how fake he sometimes seemed and how very real and transparent he seemed at other times. Irritation at how with all of the words he spouted he didn't ever really seem to _say_ anything, and Doumeki had to root through everything to get at the meaning of it.

It exhausted him. It wasn't just physical exhaustion from saving him time and again. _That_ was something he could deal with fairly easily. No, it was the _mental_ exhaustion, having to, for the first time, deal with actually worrying about _someone_.

There were other feelings, the fear-tinted anger whenever he'd done something self-sacrificial, the relief when he'd made it on time and the heavy self-loathing when he hadn't. There was admiration on how brave Watanuki had been, living alone for so long, and a soaring but highly under-expressed happiness when he saw the bento that were the only shows of gratitude he received.

And then there was the feeling that he couldn't (no, he could, but he _wouldn't_) name. The feeling that maybe had come before or possibly accompanied his desperate need to protect the smaller boy. The feeling that had just sort of wormed itself into his life long before he'd even realized and then proceeded to make itself a permanent fixture (just like some_one_ else he refused to call by name). The feeling that overtook him when all was said and done and the day was saved once again; the feeling he got when he watched Watanuki sleeping (something he'd never admit to doing and it wasn't as if he did all the time, just when he'd passed out and the archer was forced to do something with his unconscious body). It was the feeling that had maybe, just maybe, had sparked off all the other ones.

Doumeki Shizuka hadn't always been so _montone_, and _this_ feeling had made sure he wasn't going to stay that way.


End file.
